Patriots (1994)

May 29, 1994

Discoveries Made Along The Croisette

By Janet Maslin

Published: May 29, 1994

THE REWARDS OF THE CANNES international Film Festival go well beyond the pleasure of hearing the word Hudsucker pronounced with a French accent, though certainly that was one of them. Cannes offers an incomparably broad overview of world cinema, with all its contrasts and extremes. The arts of self-promotion are as well displayed here as the artistry on screen, and it takes a cool head to keep them separate. Nearly two weeks' worth of cinematic overload and celebrity drumbeating do not encourage cool thinking, but then that's the whole point. The first step to frenzy is well-orchestrated confusion.

Cannes thrives on that. You arrive here to daily press handouts that do not necessarily intend to shed light. From one Monday's listings, some sample film synopses: "A deluded bank robber believes he is King Arthur." "The humdrum life of a couple is disrupted by the arrival of an anonymous love poem." "A nocturnal homosexual preys on elderly women, kidnapping them and killing them." "A retired judge wins the affection of a young model who accidentally hit his dog with her car."

I can't speak for the first two, since they appeared on a day when the program guide listed 166 screenings. But the third and fourth are, respectively, "I Can't Sleep," a widely admired French film by Claire Denis, the director of "Chocolat," and Krzysztof Kieslowski's "Rouge," a supremely subtle and enveloping work that could not possibly be summed up in a single sentence. Definitely not a sentence about a dog being hit by a car. But the fact that nothing at Cannes is what it sounds like only enhances the festival's suspenseful atmosphere.

So does the potential for making discoveries. This was a strong year for films outside the main competition, and a number of them will find international audiences now that this event is over. Among those that attracted attention: Hal Hartley's droll, spare "Amateur," which may not expand Mr. Hartley's following but should certainly please his admirers; "Muriel's Wedding," an Australian film by a director named Paul J. Hogan, not to be confused with Crocodile Dundee, although he turned up, too; "Eat Drink Man Woman," a tasty, commercial comedy from the Taiwanese director of "The Wedding Banquet," and "Bandit Queen," a super-violent Indian film about an avenging female outlaw.

The Leningrad Cowboys, Aki Kaurismaki's hopeless musical group known for their shellacked hairdos, could be seen roaming the Croisette during the wee hours. But they didn't do much for "Tatyana, Take Care of Your Scarf," an hourlong Kaurismaki film that continues the Cowboys' globe-trotting adventures. A more successful publicity gambit was the so-called Bronx Block Party to promote "I Like It Like That." This bright urban comedy is directed by Darnell Martin, who brings a knowing feminine sensibility to bear on her material and who made the most of Cannes's prominence as a showcase for new film makers. As a smart, appealing, young African-American film maker with impressive talent, Ms. Martin came to the right place at the right time.

Films in the main competition usually arouse the strongest emotions in Cannes, since the festival's international audiences are not shy about expressing audible opinions. But the crowds were polite this year, perhaps because half the main competition films were so eminently forgettable. Shrugs greeted "The Browning Version," starring Albert Finney and signaling every shading of Terence Rattigan's play within its first 10 minutes. Along with "The Whores," a black-and-white Italian film that is exactly what it sounds like, it prompted the greatest doubts about the festival's selectivity.

Many of the other main competition films played like rough drafts, since they will call for serious editing if they are to receive wide release. "Les Patriotes," a solemn two-and-a-half-hour spy film by Eric Rochant that could have been an hour shorter, was typical in that regard. On the other hand, Quentin Tarantino's "Pulp Fiction" had virtually the same running time and didn't seem long. Mr. Tarantino, with an energy level that is somewhere beyond the volcanic, has no trouble holding an audience's attention.

Mr. Tarantino's success story is the sort that lends excitement to this entire event. Two years ago he was a new kid on the block with his first film, "Reservoir Dogs," which was shown in one of Cannes's ancillary festivals. This year he won the main competition with a much bigger film, jump-started the careers of some of his actors (notably John Travolta, whose performance was dubbed "la surprise du festival" by Le Figaro), and came across as such a fresh, avid cineaste that he will doubtless inspire many others.

The subject of screen violence always comes up when Mr. Tarantino's name is mentioned. And an event like this festival also raises the issue of violence in broader terms. For documentary film makers, addressing the bloodshed in Bosnia is now a matter of compelling interest; there are several such documentaries here, although the essence of the tragedy is not easily captured. A poster for one film, entitled "MGM Sarajevo -- Man, God, the Monster," also turned up in the window of an extravagant Cannes gourmet shop, which may offer some idea of how jarring festival-induced contrasts can be.

A different but equally fundamental idea of violence has colored recent Chinese films dealing with the Cultural Revolution. In Zhang Yimou's "To Live," hardship and brutality are depicted only indirectly, in the ways they affect the film's central family, and yet the horrors are overwhelming. It's truly disorienting to move from a film of such gravity, which split the grand jury prize, to something like Lodge Kerrigan's "Clean, Shaven," which tries to convey the inner turmoil of its deeply disturbed protagonist by shocking the audience in bloody, graphic terms. (A sign warning that "Clean, Shaven" might be violent enough to upset viewers guaranteed that screenings here drew huge crowds.)

The self-mutilation scenes in Mr. Kerrigan's film look ugly and exploitative, but then that's the way some critics dismissed "Reservoir Dogs" two years ago. If Mr. Kerrigan turns out to have new stature as dramatic and unexpected as Mr. Tarantino's, then the festival circuit (his work has already been shown at New Directors and Sundance) will have served its purpose.

Meanwhile, Mr. Tarantino has himself come a long way in dealing with violence. This time he has toned down the gore to a much more bearable level and offset it with wild, unexpected humor.

At a lunch with Mr. Tarantino (who turned up in one of the south of France's toniest restaurants wearing a Fred Flintstone T-shirt), both Mr. Travolta and Bruce Willis gave some thought to the violence in "Pulp Fiction." Mr. Travolta brought up "Goodfellas," which combines horror and humor in similar ways, and rightly observed that the unusual circular structure of Mr. Tarantino's film makes it ultimatley seem anything but exploitative. Mr. Willis, having starred in films in which the body count climbs into the hundreds, said that he saw this film as something very different from that brand of escapism. It is.

Mr. Willis and Mr. Travolta are old hands at dealing with celebrity. And, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Willis rightfully blew his cork when a woman spoke contemptuously of his work at his festival press conference, they bring an obvious professionalism to the job. At the other end of the spectrum, 14-year-old Sean Nelson, who plays a drug dealer in "Fresh," came to France from the Bronx just after his picture had been plastered all over Cannes and was politely thrilled by the whole experience. Politeness, professionalism: nice qualities. But they aren't always what the Cannes press corps is after. And they can't compare to the inimitable je ne sais quoi of Mickey Rourke.

Mr. Rourke was only here for a couple of days, during which he announced his intention to be a Hollywood team player, then had a public fit. But on one of his good days, he appeared jauntily for an early-morning (1 P.M.) interview accompanied by a friend of his, a novelist named Michael Davis. Claiming that Mr. Davis deserved screenwriting credit on his latest movie, "S.F.W.," Mr. Rourke loyally defaced a poster to add his buddy's name. He punctuated his remarks with a "You agree with that, Mike?" every now and then. Sure enough, Mike agreed.

THE GREAT MYSTERY about Mr. Rourke, inescapable in Cannes, is that the French love him so. So he explained that he loved them too and had many French friends, including the renowned photographer Robert Doisneau, who recently died.

Mr. Rourke was too busy to go to the funeral, he said. So Mike went instead. Mr. Rourke wasn't sure how to spell his friend Doisneau's name. So Mike did that too.